Reap the Wind
by Ophelia Lake
Summary: Just how many times has Dean escaped death?  He has to be poker buddies with the Reapers by now...told from a Reaper POV.


AN: I am still writing The Human Monster, in fact I have a chapter ready, but this is a one shot plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. So here it is, please enjoy. Thanks so much to Bartlebead for her awesome patience and wonderful beta skills. I don't own Supernatural, although I wished I did.

I stared out across the distance, my eyes scanning the horizon as the day bled brilliant pinks and oranges down into the muted night. Time stretched along the backdrop of sky, rippling and moving with shades of bruised indigo, silently but relentlessly ticking the minutes away. Grudgingly I began to gather my resolve, attempting to pull its tarnished and tattered remains around me, resolutely ignoring the gaping holes made by my own growing apathy.

I could do this, I could; it was just a job. Everyone had to contribute and I was no different, although if my cosmic contribution were weighed and measured lately, it would probably fall short. I hadn't been this depressed since before I died and that was saying something. Especially when taken into account that I had once welcomed death by offering up my own after my entire family were wiped out by the plague in the year 1349.

I was once told, when I was alive, that souls that pass prematurely or in an unorthodox manner are sometimes, on a case-by-case basis, given a second chance. An opportunity to gain through first-hand experience insight into the never-ending and necessary machine called death. And that was how I swallowed mouthfuls of belladonna expecting to see my mother on the other side and ended up rising to consciousness as the proud owner of every black garment known to man, a list of names miles long, and a shiny new go-get-'em attitude.

Okay, I'm slightly stretching the truth on the attitude part, or rather the nature of my attitude. Somehow, without even realizing it, I have become disillusioned. As reapers we are supposed to personify impartiality, not disinterest. Over my long tenure I was supposed to gain respect for death and dying to help rectify my reckless throwing away of my own life. Now it just seems pointless. I'm tired. I meet new souls that have passed and escort them to their respective resting places, whether up or down, I exist in the twilight of in-between.

Cramming my introspection back into the tiny box of things to rarely think about, I looked at my list once again and read the first name off the top.

Jim Grady, 29, gunshot to the head … hmmmm. Convicted felon, armed robbery, assault… No need to guess which elevator he'd be taking. Trying once again to focus my thoughts, I began chanting Grady's name with my inner voice. Once I narrowed down his position I waved my hand and appeared silently and impassively next to Grady's body. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, a mocking halo congealing on the floor, red against the sticky grey of the 7/11 convenience store linoleum. A 9mm lay next to his open hand, his fingers curling towards the palm, his body still ceding defeat, well after the gun had slipped from his lifeless grip. I looked over as the rookie cop who had taken the shot was celebrating saving the day by losing his lunch forcibly and repeatedly into the wilting bushes. He had a good heart and I knew he'd come to terms with his culpability over time. As for the departed Mr. Grady I felt no remorse in his passing. Had the officer not responded when he did I could very well have been here to collect the attendant or the young mother who'd stopped in to purchase milk on her way home. Grady wouldn't have hesitated to end either of their lives and I was ready to conclude my business by foisting him off onto the next step.

I reached two fingers down, barely noticing his cool skin, and I touched his forehead. With the skill and ease of numerous-repetitions I drew his soul towards me, noting its colors. Every soul is unique, an individual canvas reflecting that person's accomplishments, worth, potential; a very revealing self-portrait, only completely in colors rather than literal depiction, shades and hues over lines and hollows. Through countless years of ceaseless job experience, I had found pinks are generally happy, greens competitive and motivated, blues can be either sad or calm, depending on the depth of tone. Red, especially deep reds tend to be angry; yellows full of love and faith. Every soul usually has a mix of colors, a kaleidoscope of visual history, sometimes with a particular hue shining with dominance. But, like 64-count crayola crayon boxes around the world, all are represented, including black, brown, and gray. Grady's soul was very Jackson Pollock, an oily chaos of tangling inky black tendrils against a grey misty backdrop interspersed with angry red splotches practically burning in intensity.

Feeling a shuddery sigh tingle at the back of my throat, I claimed the soul and pictured the holding room in my mind. I was anxious to disburse my tainted baggage for several reasons, mainly due to the sulfurous smell already emanating from the repugnant man's essence, but also because I had an appointment later that evening for which I did not wish to be late.

Straightening my spine, I walked across the room, listening to the sound of my footsteps faintly echo against the hard tile. I passed other Reapers on my way to the elevators, frowning as I was forced to get in line. Apparently there was a traffic jam.

I nudged the black clad shoulder in front of me, pleasantly pleased it was someone I knew. A former civil war soldier, Alec stood a foot taller than me and he leaned down to hear my question.

"What happened?" I inquired. The flow to the elevators usually ran smoothly and without delay.

"Tsunami," he answered, shifting his weight.

"Oh," I murmured. "Guess we're going to be here a while, huh."

"Probably," he responded.

Alec was the only entity I knew who could turn communicating entirely in one-word sentences into an art. I looked behind me at the line of black stretching on endlessly. We moved up a fraction of an inch before forward momentum stalled again. I had once claimed a soul who suffered from a heart attack waiting in line at the DMV; this traffic was reminiscent of the lines I witnessed that day.

I peered around Alec as best I could, twenty-six more deposits to go, and then my turn. We moved forward again slowly. I concentrated on steadying my breathing, slowly and evenly, until I felt my previous state of numbness begin to invade my being, bringing with it the reassuring void. I can do this, I reminded myself; it's just another day like all the other days, in an infinite string of atrophied monotony.

Just do your job.

I watched Alec walk into the elevator. Mere moments later, he came back out, winking at me as he left, presumably to collect another soul. Finally it was my turn, and I stepped inside as the doors opened and leaned slightly against the rich mahogany paneling. I waited for the elevator to register its occupants and make a destination decision - although I was pretty confident I knew which direction we were headed.

AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" came blaring out of the speakers as the box jarred to life and began moving down, 666 floors later, the doors slid open with a hiss. I'd forgotten what a sense of twisted humor the devil had sometimes.

Later, I waited outside the building, blending into the background, the velvet-black night wrapped around me like a shroud. I knew it was almost time to collect the one soul that had continued to elude me. I knew it much in the way I had known to take my next breath when I was alive; it was purely instinctual.

I had plans for Dean Winchester. He wouldn't cheat death again. Not this time.

Dean Winchester was something of Holy Grail among my kind. His was the soul every one kept trying to reap and so far he had managed to avoid death each and every time. For someone who almost died - and did die - as many times as Dean had he was amazingly calm about the whole thing. In fact, I had volunteered to reap him the last several times, simply because I enjoyed our conversations, even while he was resolutely turning me down.

I saw the breeze rustle the leaves, sending them dancing in the night. Not a single hair or article of clothing moved against my skin. God, how I missed something so simple as feeling the air move across my body, with its own roving particles helping to cement my stationary existence, providing needed stability against the never-ending pull of gravity. There were so many things I had taken for granted when I had been alive.

A warm pull began to center in the middle of my chest, signifying the soul's readiness to cross planes.

I closed my eyes and chanted Dean Winchester's name until I found myself standing next to his slumped body. Sam was cradling his fallen brother to his chest, tears and blood mixing in his grief. Gunshot, I noted absently. This made the shooting tally up to 15, finally surpassing the intracranial bleed and resulting herniation of his brain from hitting various tombstones and other hard surfaces head-first. His heart was still sluggishly beating, lungs intermittently pulling in stilted breaths. It wouldn't be long now, if only I could convince him to go with me this time.

Dean's soul pulsed gently underneath his rapidly cooling skin. Its kaleidoscope of colors were mostly green, blue, and yellow. There was a lot of yellow.

I blew on it softly, bringing forth his corporal form, so we could talk. He shimmered into view, and with a disgusted look on his face, stared at his own form. Then he raised his eyes to mine.

"Put me back in Tessa. I ain't finished."

"Dean," I began calmly, "everyone finishes at one time or another. It is just your time. You need to move on."

His chin jutted out and his eyes flashed, emerald green orbs, hard and unyielding in their resolution.

"No," he stated. "Sam needs me. I do good, I save a lot of people. That has to balance out somehow."

"No one can deny the work you and your brother have done. But it is time to rest now. This continued fighting, it isn't natural. There are other soldiers, other wars. The world will continue, Dean Winchester, even without you."

"No," he said again. "I won't go with you. Leave my body alone, leave my soul alone, leave _me_ alone."

I know I should have let him go then and there. I could see Sam begin CPR and Bobby on his phone calling an ambulance. History had proven to me that Dean Winchester would escape his fate again; it was only a matter of time. Still, I was loath to let him go.

"Do you ever get tired of it all?" I honestly wanted to know his opinion; maybe hearing his motivation would be enough to jar me out of my own growing disillusionment.

He looked at me like he was trying to figure out the trick, map the pitfalls found in my words. I just stared at him, knowing that to him I appeared a picture of serenity and calm. Nothing like what I was actually feeling.

"Tired of what? Dying? Or having to come back to life and do it all over again?"

Trust Dean to get the heart of the matter.

"The routine, the monotony. Doing a tiring, thankless job that no one will ever appreciate or acknowledge you for. Do you ever ask yourself what it all means?"

"This from a reaper. Tessa, I'm finding the irony pretty damn amusing."

"Glad I could help, since you refuse to move on….?" I let the question hang while he considered his answer. I knew he'd give me a good one, Dean was just like that.

"No," he answered finally. "I get tired sometimes, and sometimes I wish we didn't know what was out there, hurting people. But I do. And I think - how many people would get hurt or die if we were to stop? So I get up and I keep going because to give up, to stop, would disrespect the sacrifices of other people who fight, and bleed, and die in this war. Good hardworking people, like my dad, who was just trying to help people too, and it killed him."

"He gave up his life for you, Dean, not people. You." I thought it was important Dean understood some of his worth, since I didn't really think he did.

"Yeah, and I gotta live with that each and every day. So put me back, Tessa, I ain't ready to cross over yet."

I smiled at him, noting the determined set of his shoulders, the way he was completely ignoring Sam and Bobby's frantic attempts to revive him. His gaze was focused solely on me.

"You know how it works. It's going to hurt like…"

"Yeah, I know. Like a bitch. Just hurry up and get on with it."

"Goodbye, Dean, until the next time."

"Catch you later, sweetheart. Hopefully much, much later!"

I called his soul to me and bent over his still form. His breathing was completely assisted now, his heartbeat as well. CPR was keeping Dean alive, but barely. He'd have to fight not to end back up on my list again. But I knew he could do it. Dean was nothing if not a fighter.

"Stop," I heard Bobby say. "I got a pulse."

"Oh, thank God," Sam cried. He collapsed beside his brother, forehead to forehead.

I stood and watched them for a moment until I could feel the next soul calling me, needing my help to cross over. Other reapers would laugh to find out Dean had inspired me to continue doing my job with purpose. Most wouldn't understand needing motivation in the first place. But as I left the Winchesters, my heart lighter, and my smile quicker to appear, I knew I had Dean to thank, even if he wouldn't understand why.

Maybe I could try explaining it to him the next time I tried to reap him. I knew there would be a next time. With Dean Winchester there always was.

AN II: Thanks for taking the time to read my story, I really appreciate it. I would love to read a review too! (shameless hint)


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